


Knives

by Lightspeed



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Blow Jobs, Bondage, Cock Size Humiliation, Cock Worship, Consensual Non-Consent, Dirty Talk, Drugs, Facials, Humiliation, Knives, M/M, Shame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-19
Updated: 2013-07-19
Packaged: 2017-12-20 16:05:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/889188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lightspeed/pseuds/Lightspeed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trussed and naked, Spy awakes to find Sniper comparing the sizes of their knives, and finds himself wanting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Knives

Spy awoke to darkness. Not complete darkness, but overwhelming shadow, broken by a circle of orange, flickering light across the room, illuminating a cracked, concrete wall. On a stool nearby, a bulls eye lantern sat burning away, casting its dim glow through the room apart from the spotlight it shone. Suggestions of movement played at the corners of the rogue's vision, making him jump.

Or, he would jump, if he weren't bound in place over a wooden bench. His hands tied firmly with rough, hempen rope around his wrists, secured to the bench, his ankles held in the leather bonds of a spreader bar behind him, he stood on his knees, a bandana knotted into a gag, tied in his mouth. He was nude, not a stitch remaining of his immaculate suit and balaclava. Bound, gagged, naked, and helpless, he knelt alone in the shadows. Panic welled up in his gut, a crawling, slithering, scuttling thing that crept through his insides with millipede footsteps. His shoulders went taut, tense, his body trying to launch into flight, held fast by his bonds. The cold, hard cement of the floor wore at his knees, and he could hear nothing but his own staggered breathing, his blood rushing through his ears, and the flickering of the lantern's light.

Was he alone?

Movement again, more deliberate this time. His captor wanted him to know he was here, now, silent though he may be. That's when he saw it.

The glint of metal.

Cold steel pressed against his throat before he could even try to flinch, the sharp blade turned just enough onto its side to avoid slicing open his skin. His stubble, however, would have a suspiciously bare spot. Spy tried not to swallow, not to move. His breath caught in his throat. He willed himself not to shiver.

Heavy, husky breaths rolled across his ear, making his insides churn. He could smell cigarettes and beer. A wet, hot tongue snaked out to trace the shell of his ear, a thin, moist line that sent a chill up his spine. “Awake, is 'e?”

Spy tried his best to keep his breathing even. He was experienced at resisting torture, at handling interrogation. It would take more to rouse the terror yawning away inside him. The voice, however, sent a thrill through him, slithering between his thighs. It was rough, low, and fried. A growl, lurid and full of suggestion.

“About bloody time,” the voice growled, chuckling a bit. “See this?” The blade was removed from Spy's neck and held before him. “This, is a kukri.” So it was. “ _This_ is a knife.” The blade returned to his throat, trembling with menace. “A sharp knife. A proper knife. It has _size_ ," the emphasis came with meaning, with a warm, rough hand sliding up Spy's thigh. His metaphor clear to its target, the rogue felt his body responding, much to his own chagrin. "It has _width_. It has _length_ ," he snarled, his hand sliding away from his captive's leg.

Spy's assailant maneuvered around in front of him, kukri still pressed to his neck. The low shadowy light of the lantern lit the creases of his face, and Spy's eyes widened to see the familiar lines of Sniper's handsome countenance grinning before him, predatory and terrifying. The blade left Spy, and Sniper settled back, seated on something, looking him up and down. He leaned back, looking down at his captive with an aloof smirk, a superior satisfaction. He crossed his legs, ankle-to-knee, and looked over the kurki in his hands. Reaching one hand into his pocket, he pulled out another knife. A smaller one; one that Spy recognized instantly. It was his. With practiced movements, Sniper flicked out the blade, the balisong clacking into place with ease. The bushman examined the knife carefully, then slammed the blade into the wooden bench next to Spy's head with a loud _thuck_.

“Butterfly knife. 's the thing about that, innit? A butterfly's such a small thing. A pretty, dainty little insect. Delicate. Tiny, really,” Sniper ground the point home as he twisted the point of the balisong in the wood. “'s a good name, really. Look at that knife. That blade. 's real flashy, real pretty. 's also real, _real_ small. Thin. Short. Miniscule, really.” He sniffed, wrenching the knife from the bench. He regarded it with distaste. “Pathetic.” He stood, stabbing the blade into the seat he'd been occupying.

“You can't even carry a knife that's big? You sure don't pack anythin' else that's of a decent size. Not like a real man. Kukris, claymores, bone saws, and what've you got? A prissy little butterfly knife. A tiny little thing tucked away where no one can see it. Where no one can laugh at it.”

Spy looked up at the gunman standing before him, back slouched, hips cocked forward, and felt himself shrink before him. Held fast, wanting to recoil, wanting to slink away. The heat between his thighs felt unbearably diminutive. He wasn't a man, not enough of one. Sniper had laid bare his shame, literally and figuratively. His obvious insufficiency left him trying to close his legs together, to hide his shame even amongst the shadows, but the bar between his ankles made it difficult, perching him up on the tops of his feet as he tries to squeeze his knees shut. His hips ached, but the shame burned hotter.

“'s all you are, though, innit? Yer a little thing, tiny and sad. Hidin' from everyone. Can't fight a man face to face. Can't fuck 'im either. Not with somethin' that small.” Sniper walked around Spy's side, trailing the blunt side of his kukri along the bound rogue, down his shoulder and back, along his hip, to the curve of his ass. Stepping behind, he reared back and cracked the flat of the blade across that soft, pale backside, making Spy jump, his legs spreading back apart as he fell back onto his knees. The slap reverberated along the concrete walls of the darkened room, the sting roaring through the Frenchman and bringing flame anew to his groin, meager as it was. His cry was muffled by the gag in his mouth, his snuffling yelp absorbed by moist fabric. He hang his head.

“Couldn't bring anyone off with that thing,” Sniper growled, crouching down to run a finger up the underside of Spy's cock, from base to head. He heard a sniff from the shorter mercenary, the best gasp he could muster in his gagged state. He was harder than he'd ever seen a man, hot and pulsing against his flesh, the contact all too short. He brought the kukri to bear, and ran the blunt side up the underside of Spy's balls and taint, lifting off before reaching the cleft of his ass. The rogue's whole body went tense, his inhale deep and sudden as the cold metal touched some of his warmest parts. One finger found its way to his anus, rubbing slow circles against the tight pucker, making the rogue arch to the touch. “Minute you started thrustin', you'd be outside again. You'd be wasted on an arse.” As quickly as he'd began, he stopped, standing up and giving him another smack with the flat of the kukri, this time lighter, dismissive. “You're wasted on anyone.”

He circled to Spy's other side, kneeling again to reach below him, seizing hold of the shorter man's cock with his thumb and two fingers, leaning up so his lips were against Spy's ear. He gently began to tug at that loathsome member. “You're pathetic. Callin' this a prick. I bet you'd love to know what a real man looks like, yeh?” Spy's muffled panting grew erratic as Sniper stroked him with minimal contact, making him feel so unbearably tiny in his halfhearted grip. “Know what it feels like? A nice, big, proper cock? You'll never get to have one. But I can give you a taste.” The bushman's hand left Spy, reaching forward to his hands, bound to the bench. The kukri came up, into his line of sight, gleaming menacingly in the orange lamplight. Sniper grabbed hold of Spy's left hand and sawed at the rope binding it, cutting it free with the kukri. He seized him by the wrist and dragged his hand down between his thighs, wrapping the rogue's fingers around his own cock. “Here. You can compare.”

He stood, stepping around front of Spy again, hips cocked out, trousers bulging before him. Sniper opened his fly and withdrew his cock, holding it in the light for his captive to see. He was large. Long, thick, and like his kukri, a little curved. Stroking himself slowly, he set down his knife and tugged his captive's gag from his mouth, letting Spy gasp and catch the air he'd been desperately trying to reach with just his nose. “Taste what a real cock is like? The closest you'll ever get. Get to know what a real man feels like.”

Spy looked up at Sniper, shivering, his hand flying over his own sad excuse for an erection, taking in the sight of that oversized member with eager, greedy eyes. It was gorgeous. Rigid, swollen, smooth and unblemished, a few small veins running near the base, it was a sculpture to Spy's eyes. Art, perfect and unyielding. The dark pink of his head stood proud, his foreskin nestled beneath its ridge. It was unmistakably masculine, the mark of a man, the pride of the smirking assassin who held it. Dwarfing the shaft gripped in his own delicate hand, Spy found himself salivating, yearning to feel that cock, to experience it. He wanted to take it into his mouth, trace every inch of it with his tongue, feel the heat and the soft skin and smell Sniper's scent as he buried his face in the taller man's groin. “Please,” Spy found himself panting, licking his lips. “Please.”

“Since you asked so nice.” Stepping forward, Sniper guided himself to his captive's lips, grinning smugly as he opened them slowly and took the head of his cock into his mouth. The Frenchman's warm tongue laved over it, tasting him, pressing flat against his hot flesh and slowly caressing every last part, learning every contour, every bump, every ridge and divot as he relished in the musky, salty flavour of him. Spy moaned around that cock, his eyes fluttering closed as the bushman pushed his hips forward, sliding into that welcoming mouth. His tongue dove and darted everywhere, committing every last texture and curve to memory. This was manhood. This girthy phallus, this was the peak he could never reach. A symbol he could only dream of bearing. He was a pale, sallow imitation of Sniper's virile perfection. Spy lapped at the hot member reverently, stroking himself, plaintive, feeble groans slipping between his lips.

"You like that, yeh? I bet you do, you sorry little shite. You sad, needy little mongrel. I'm gonna show you how to use one of these," Sniper taunted, his hand slipping to the back of Spy's head, holding him steady. With no consideration of the Frenchman's preparedness, he began to fuck that wet mouth, driving deep into his captive's face, touching his throat, hearing him gag around him and flinch. He paid it no mind, using him for his pleasure, taking what he wanted. Spy's whimpers and moans rolled through him, panicked panting through his nose a heady intoxicant. He felt heat welling within him, a tightness that gripped his balls and clenched his pelvic floor. Pulling out of his captive's mouth, he held his cock over his gasping face, groaning softly as he released. He tugged out hot come onto Spy's forehead, nose, cheeks and lips, milking out every drop he could.

Spy followed almost immediately, pumping his climax out with furious strokes of his free hand. He heard the thick liquid hit the floor in short spurts, his body shaking violently with the force of his orgasm. His voice unrestrained, he cursed in his native tongue, damning Sniper, damning God, damning himself. Spent, he went slack in his bonds, free arm clutching the bench for all he was worth.

Sniper snatched the balisong from his seat and cut the rope holding Spy's other wrist, stabbing it back into the bench as the Frenchman began to slump limply to the floor. He caught Spy in one arm, guiding him gently to the floor and rolling him over onto his back. Quickly, he reached down and unbuckled the restraints on the spreader bar, freeing his captive's legs, his bonds now gone. He sat down beside the supine assassin, panting, dazed, and spent. Scooping him up into his arms, he pulled him into his lap, tugging a bandana from his pocket to wipe his face.

"Leave it, cher," Spy pleaded, smiling weakly up at the bushman. "For now."

"You alright?" Sniper asked, tugging him close, into a warm, strong hug.

"Very. Very alright," came the reply, as boneless as the body that had forced it out. "That was... there are no words."

"Good. If I'd fucked it up, I'd've--"

"But you didn't. Thank you for indulging me. The drugs worked well. I didn't wake through all of that trussing."

"'S hard to lie to you so blatantly like that." Sniper ran his fingers up the slowly softening length of Spy's cock, that beloved appendage of the beloved man in his arms. "Hard to believe you get off on that. Don't guys with actual small cocks usually go in more for this?"

"It is the humiliation, the inadequacy and domination. I do not try to understand it, simply satisfy it when the urge arises."

"Yeh, well, I think yer prick's perfect, like the rest of you." Lips met, both men groaning at the salty taste of Sniper's come on Spy's lips.

"You flatter me."

"It's true." Sniper plucked the balisong from the bench and flipped it closed. "You're the only bloke who can go around sayin' 'e's had his knife in nine men in one day."

Spy stared at the balisong, then back up to Sniper, his eyes half-lidded. "I'm not even sure if you're using knives as metaphors anymore."

**Author's Note:**

> requested by Tumblr user AskTheREDNB, inspiration from Tumblr user Ravenhallow


End file.
